1
“I’m telling you, it was an old man,” Carlos said. “Like old, old.”
I gave him a skeptical look. “And you couldn’t catch up with him?”
“Man, I got a bum knee. And that dude had a gun!”
Carlos didn’t have time for that kind of drama. He was mid-30s with dark hair, brown eyes, and a healthy tan. A little thick around the midsection, Carlos wouldn’t be setting any records in the 100-yard dash.
Red and blue lights flashed as first responders swarmed the alley behind the liquor store. Brenda hovered over the remains of a man in his early to mid-40s. Crimson stained his shirt. He’d been popped twice in the chest.
No shell casings on the ground, as far as I could see. The shooter had either collected his brass or used a revolver. Some old timers favor revolvers. That was my bet.
Dietrich snapped photos, and forensic investigators chronicled the scene.
The fishy smell of sour trash drifted through the air from a nearby dumpster. It mixed with the tinny metallic scent of blood.
Sheriff Daniels looked on with a tight face.
The victim was dressed in a collared shirt, slacks, and penny loafers. He had sharp features, and his jaw sported a trimmed beard. His short, wavy, rust-colored hair and hazel eyes complemented somewhat fair skin. He certainly hadn’t been spending a lot of time in the Florida sun.
"Tell me everything," I said to Carlos.
He shrugged, then pointed at the deceased. "The guy left the store. He was accosted by the old man. Grandpa pulled a gun on him and escorted him around the building into the alley. I was checking out at the counter when I saw the two of them. A moment later, I heard the gunshots. I don't know what I was thinking. I rushed out of the store and ran toward the sound. Stupid. That's when I saw the old man taking off down the alley. I don't usually run in the direction of gunfire, but… I don’t know. Something came over me. I should get some kind of medal, right?”
I gave him a flat look. “Have you ever seen these two gentlemen before?”
Carlos shook his head.
“So you didn’t actually see the old man shoot the victim?”
His brow wrinkled. “No. But I didn’t need to. It’s pretty obvious.”
“Anything else I should know?”
“No.” He thought for a moment. “Wait. Yeah. I don’t know if this matters, but they spoke to each other in another language. I think it was German. The old man was yelling at him.”
“You know what was said?”
He gave me a dumb look. “I don’t speak German. But the old guy was angry.”
“So, they knew each other?”
Carlos shrugged. “How should I know?”
“Describe the shooter.”
“Late 80s, silver hair, maybe six feet tall, kinda frail.”
“And he ran off,” I said, still with a hint of doubt.
“Yeah. Surprised the shit out of me.”
“Think you can give a description to a sketch artist?”
“Yeah, sure.”
I took his information and gave Carlos my card. “I’ll have someone contact you.”
